Or that it lay heaped like an usurer's mass,
All was to them the same, they were to pass,
And so they did, from Styx to Acheron,
The ever-boiling flood; whose banks upon
Your Fleet-lane furies, and hot cooks do dwell,
That with still-scalding steams make the place
hell.

The sinks ran grease, and hair of measled hogs,
The heads, houghs, entrails, and the hides of dogs;
For, to say truth, what scullion is so nasty
To put the skins and offal in a pasty?
Cats there lay, divers had been flayed and
roasted,

And after mouldy grown, again were toasted;
Then, selling not, a dish was ta'en to mince 'em,
But still, it seemed, the rankness did convince

'em.

For here they were thrown in with' the melted pewter,

Yet drowned they not; they had five lives in future.

But 'mongst these tiberts,120 who do you think there was?

Old Banks, the juggler, one Pythagoras, Grave tutor to the learned horse; both which

120 Cats were called tiberts, or tyberts, of which there is an early example in the story of Reynard the Fox. Shakespeare plays upon the name of Tybalt, from its affinity to the name given to the cats, and makes Mercutio call him "rat-catcher" and "king of cats." The modern name tabby is, apparently, a descendant of tibert. — B.

Being, beyond sea, burned for one witch,121
Their spirits transmigrated to a cat,

And now, above the pool, a face right fat,

With great gray eyes are lifted up, and mewed;

Thrice did it spit; thrice dived; at last it viewed Our brave heroès with a milder glare,

And, in a piteous tune, began: "How dare

121 Banks and his famous horse Marocco, whom he taught to dance and perform a variety of feats, are frequently alluded to by the writers of the time, and had the honor of being specially mentioned by Sir Walter Raleigh in his History of the World. Shakespeare is supposed to refer to Marocco, as the "dancing horse," in Love's Labor Lost; but dancing was one of the least of his acquirements. Banks taught him a variety of tricks; and one of his most notable feats was an ascent to the top of St. Paul's. Dekker speaks of this achievement in his Gull's Horn-book: "Hence you may descend, to talk about the horse that went up; and strive, if you can, to know his keeper; take the day of the month, and the number of the steps; and suffer yourself to believe verily that it was not a horse, but something else in the likeness of one." It appears from a passage in the Owle's Almanack (1618) quoted by Nares, that this feat was performed in 1601: "Since the dancing-horse stood on the top of Powles, whilst a number of asses stood braying below, 17 years." In consequence of the marvellous stories related about this remarkable horse, poor Banks was considered by many people to be in league with the devil. Carrying his exhibition to Paris, he was there imprisoned, and the horse put under sequestration, upon a suspicion of magic, but liberated when it was shown that the whole was the result of mere training, Banks offering to teach any horse to perform similar feats within a twelvemonth. At Rome, however, his explanations were of no avail; and when he appeared in the Holy City, he was seized, and he and his horse were burned for witchcraft. — B.

Your dainty nostrils, in so hot a season, When every clerk eats artichokes and peason, Laxative lettuce, and such windy meat,

Tempt such a passage? when each privy's seat Is filled with buttock? and the walls do sweat Urine and plasters? when the noise doth beat Upon your ears, of discords so unsweet,

And outeries of the damned in the Fleet?
Cannot the plague-bill keep you back? nor bells
Of loud Sepulchre's, with their hourly knells,
But you will visit grisly Pluto's hall?

Behold where Cerberus, reared on the wall
Of Holborn (three sergeants' heads), looks o'er
And stays but till you come unto the door!
Tempt not his fury, Pluto is away;
And Madame Caesar, great Proserpina,

Is now from home; you lose your labors quite,
Were you Jove's sons, or had Alcides' might."
They cried out, "Puss!" He told them he was
Banks,

That had so often showed them merry pranks; They laughed at his laugh-worthy fate; and passed

The triple-head without a sop. At last,
Calling for Rhadamanthus, that dwelt by,
A soap-boiler; and acus him nigh,
Who kept an ale-house; with my little Minos,

122 An arrow-maker- the person who put on the feather. From flèche, an arrow. —- B.

An ancient purblind fletcher,122 with a high

nose;

They took 'em all, to witness of their action, And so went bravely back without protraction.

In memory of which most liquid deed, The city since hath raised a pyramid; And I could wish for their eternized sakes, My Muse had ploughed with his that sung A-jax.123

123 Sir John Harrington, who wrote a treatise called Misacmos; or, the Metamorphosis of Ajax.-B.

THE FOREST.